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shadow_vector2011-04-14 06:15 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-04-14 06:15 am
Weight
PG
IDW
Turmoil, Lockdown, Wing
dark? Obvious canon tweaking.
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tf_rare_pairing weekly request response Wing/Turmoil hatred
“This isn’t Deadlock.” The voice, a bass so deep that it vibrated behind Wing’s powered down optics. He turned his head, mouth tight with pain. He seemed to float in it, a shifting, roiling knotty mass of red and black agony, hot and turgid around his spark.
“No.” The more familiar voice. The Decepticon who had taken him, green and black. The one Drift had fought. Had Drift survived? He ached at the possibility. “But,” and Wing could hear a sharp, hostile smile in the voice, “Know better than to return empty handed to Megatron.”
“Megatron.” An unhappy rumble.
The acid humor. “Megatron. He’s a little…unhappy with you right now.”
Wing felt a weight over his chassis, felt a roughness there. He heard a high sharp whine: himself, giving voice to pain. A hand. A large one. Wing tried to move his hands, online his optics.
“Pity.” A long moment. “And what did you expect him to make of...this?”
“This one knows something. There was a reason Braid wanted him dead. And Deadlock...?” A sinister chuckle. Wing felt a brief flare of hope: Drift had survived.
“Deadlock.” A note of hard finality. This one, the deep-voiced one, knew Deadlock, with some dark, velvet intimacy. Wing shivered. The hand on his chassis twitched. A strange bark of laughter Wing couldn't interpret. “You insult me, Lockdown.”
“I try.”
A warning rumble. “Unfortunately, you'll have to find some other plan. This one comes with me.” Hard challenge in the voice, almost asking for defiance.
“Collector, now, are you, Turmoil?”
A derisive hiss. “Please, Lockdown. I want him for the same reason you do.”
Even Wing, crippled, sightless, dumb with pain, knew what that reason was: Drift.
[***]
Wing felt movement, his weight shifting, the fuzz of an EM field against his left side, and the loose swing of his feet. Carried, helpless, limp. It was...humiliating, if he weren't beyond humiliation. He should have died. That was the pinnacle of humiliation: that he hadn't even died correctly, with honor. If they knew he was alive, others would suffer. They might come for him, endanger themselves. He gave a moan of pure misery.
“Online your optics.” The deep voice from before. Turmoil.
Wing cycled on his optics—there was no victory in defiance, and no more surrender than he had already done. They warmed slowly, as if reluctant to see.
A dark shape resolved itself: massive frame, broad shouldered, lambent orange optics, a face closed off behind a mask and visor. Something, Wing thought, this mech does not want being seen about him. Why else hide so much?
A strange grunt. “I haven't seen gold optics in...millenia.” Turmoil's voice was tight and strange: something else he was trying to hide, even from himself. His gaze left Wing's concentrating on the walk, saying nothing until he'd ducked down under a low threshold to lay Wing on the cool metal of a repair berth. He hadn't ordered Wing to speak: Wing kept his words, gratefully, to himself, studying his captor. Turmoil had known Drift. Had shaped Drift.
Wing thought of Drift, longingly--all those hard edges: violence, paranoia. They seemed like flags of warning now, signs of what he would face, and he bowed before the rightness of it: he, now, a stranger in Drift's land, as the Decepticon had been in his.
“Our repair facilities are far superior to those that...Lockdown has at his disposal.” The dark Decepticon said the name with hot contempt. He bent over, large hands pushing surprisingly gently at Wing, opening an access hatch. Wing felt the prickling rush of medical-grade energon, and then the hard burn of his mobility systems kicking online. There was a pause, expecting a reply.
“Yes,” Wing managed. He wasn't sure he wanted to be repaired. He had been so prepared to die for his city, to die to give Drift his freedom. He had...ended his thoughts with that, laid down the burden of life. And he wasn't sure he was ready—or able—to pick up all that weight again. Especially with this added mass, this complicated snare he was to bait.
Turmoil grunted, and Wing felt the orange gaze slide over him, his hastily patched armor, his scorch-streaked frame. A thumb rode along his cheekplate. “Pretty,” Turmoil murmured.”Did Deadlock think so?”
Wing sucked a sudden, sharp vent as the words summoned memories, an army of wraiths, stretching their long arms in never-to-be-filled embraces.
“I don't know a Deadlock,” he said, quietly, barely trusting his voice, dodging the question. Drift had thought him beautiful. Drift thought him dead. Better that way. Better that way for all of them.
Turmoil laughed. “Valiant defense.” The hand stroked down the side of Wing's frame, finding the slight projection of a wing's folded nub. Turmoil twisted, hard; Wing arched up, choking on pain. “I suggest you not lie to me again, Wing.”
Wing gasped, “It wasn't a lie,” he said, panting, as Turmoil released the wing panel. “I am forbidden.” He knew the truth would save him nothing, would hurt where a tidy lie might spare him pain. But he was a Knight, even now, even swordless. He felt the lack of its keen weight like a terrible emptiness.
The hand rested, a cool presence on his auto-repair-heated frame. A reminder, as if he needed—or wanted—reminding. “Really.” A note of round, deep amusement. “You have met this mech?” A datapad floated in front of his view. Drift's face, the familiar helm he had worn, the rounded gold cheekplates still intriguing, the same, too-familiar glower. A surge of pain around his spark.
“Y-yes.”
Turmoil gave a satisfied sound, optics keen on Wing's face, as he tucked the pad away.
“He won't come, though,” Wing blurted. He struggled to push up to an elbow, though, logically, he knew there was no point. He was going nowhere. There was no escape. The battle had been for Drift's freedom as much as the safety of New Crystal City. Drift knew the price Wing had paid, had been willing to pay. He would honor that, honor this and any suffering Wing endured. “He values his freedom too much.”
“We shall see,” Turmoil said, mildly. He shifted his weight, lifting one hip to rest on the edge of the berth. “I'm sure that you can provide...other compensations.” He let his hand trail down from the chassis over the pelvic frame, down the inside of one splayed thigh, the gesture speaking for itself.
Wing shivered, trying to draw himself away from the lascivious touch and its malign promise. “He turned his back on you. He won't come back. He's not one of you anymore,” he said, a thin resistance of all he could imagine resisting—the end of the hope that he had died for.
“Perhaps,” Turmoil said, calmly, hand stilling on the thigh,”I know him better than you think.” He leaned closer, close enough that his EM field—a strange, void coolness—sucked the heat from Wing's. “And breaking you with that knowledge will be its own pleasure, pretty jet.”
Wing sank back, crushed under the sudden mass of despair and hatred that swept over him, pulling him under to drown.
IDW
Turmoil, Lockdown, Wing
dark? Obvious canon tweaking.
for
tf_rare_pairing weekly request response Wing/Turmoil hatred “This isn’t Deadlock.” The voice, a bass so deep that it vibrated behind Wing’s powered down optics. He turned his head, mouth tight with pain. He seemed to float in it, a shifting, roiling knotty mass of red and black agony, hot and turgid around his spark.
“No.” The more familiar voice. The Decepticon who had taken him, green and black. The one Drift had fought. Had Drift survived? He ached at the possibility. “But,” and Wing could hear a sharp, hostile smile in the voice, “Know better than to return empty handed to Megatron.”
“Megatron.” An unhappy rumble.
The acid humor. “Megatron. He’s a little…unhappy with you right now.”
Wing felt a weight over his chassis, felt a roughness there. He heard a high sharp whine: himself, giving voice to pain. A hand. A large one. Wing tried to move his hands, online his optics.
“Pity.” A long moment. “And what did you expect him to make of...this?”
“This one knows something. There was a reason Braid wanted him dead. And Deadlock...?” A sinister chuckle. Wing felt a brief flare of hope: Drift had survived.
“Deadlock.” A note of hard finality. This one, the deep-voiced one, knew Deadlock, with some dark, velvet intimacy. Wing shivered. The hand on his chassis twitched. A strange bark of laughter Wing couldn't interpret. “You insult me, Lockdown.”
“I try.”
A warning rumble. “Unfortunately, you'll have to find some other plan. This one comes with me.” Hard challenge in the voice, almost asking for defiance.
“Collector, now, are you, Turmoil?”
A derisive hiss. “Please, Lockdown. I want him for the same reason you do.”
Even Wing, crippled, sightless, dumb with pain, knew what that reason was: Drift.
[***]
Wing felt movement, his weight shifting, the fuzz of an EM field against his left side, and the loose swing of his feet. Carried, helpless, limp. It was...humiliating, if he weren't beyond humiliation. He should have died. That was the pinnacle of humiliation: that he hadn't even died correctly, with honor. If they knew he was alive, others would suffer. They might come for him, endanger themselves. He gave a moan of pure misery.
“Online your optics.” The deep voice from before. Turmoil.
Wing cycled on his optics—there was no victory in defiance, and no more surrender than he had already done. They warmed slowly, as if reluctant to see.
A dark shape resolved itself: massive frame, broad shouldered, lambent orange optics, a face closed off behind a mask and visor. Something, Wing thought, this mech does not want being seen about him. Why else hide so much?
A strange grunt. “I haven't seen gold optics in...millenia.” Turmoil's voice was tight and strange: something else he was trying to hide, even from himself. His gaze left Wing's concentrating on the walk, saying nothing until he'd ducked down under a low threshold to lay Wing on the cool metal of a repair berth. He hadn't ordered Wing to speak: Wing kept his words, gratefully, to himself, studying his captor. Turmoil had known Drift. Had shaped Drift.
Wing thought of Drift, longingly--all those hard edges: violence, paranoia. They seemed like flags of warning now, signs of what he would face, and he bowed before the rightness of it: he, now, a stranger in Drift's land, as the Decepticon had been in his.
“Our repair facilities are far superior to those that...Lockdown has at his disposal.” The dark Decepticon said the name with hot contempt. He bent over, large hands pushing surprisingly gently at Wing, opening an access hatch. Wing felt the prickling rush of medical-grade energon, and then the hard burn of his mobility systems kicking online. There was a pause, expecting a reply.
“Yes,” Wing managed. He wasn't sure he wanted to be repaired. He had been so prepared to die for his city, to die to give Drift his freedom. He had...ended his thoughts with that, laid down the burden of life. And he wasn't sure he was ready—or able—to pick up all that weight again. Especially with this added mass, this complicated snare he was to bait.
Turmoil grunted, and Wing felt the orange gaze slide over him, his hastily patched armor, his scorch-streaked frame. A thumb rode along his cheekplate. “Pretty,” Turmoil murmured.”Did Deadlock think so?”
Wing sucked a sudden, sharp vent as the words summoned memories, an army of wraiths, stretching their long arms in never-to-be-filled embraces.
“I don't know a Deadlock,” he said, quietly, barely trusting his voice, dodging the question. Drift had thought him beautiful. Drift thought him dead. Better that way. Better that way for all of them.
Turmoil laughed. “Valiant defense.” The hand stroked down the side of Wing's frame, finding the slight projection of a wing's folded nub. Turmoil twisted, hard; Wing arched up, choking on pain. “I suggest you not lie to me again, Wing.”
Wing gasped, “It wasn't a lie,” he said, panting, as Turmoil released the wing panel. “I am forbidden.” He knew the truth would save him nothing, would hurt where a tidy lie might spare him pain. But he was a Knight, even now, even swordless. He felt the lack of its keen weight like a terrible emptiness.
The hand rested, a cool presence on his auto-repair-heated frame. A reminder, as if he needed—or wanted—reminding. “Really.” A note of round, deep amusement. “You have met this mech?” A datapad floated in front of his view. Drift's face, the familiar helm he had worn, the rounded gold cheekplates still intriguing, the same, too-familiar glower. A surge of pain around his spark.
“Y-yes.”
Turmoil gave a satisfied sound, optics keen on Wing's face, as he tucked the pad away.
“He won't come, though,” Wing blurted. He struggled to push up to an elbow, though, logically, he knew there was no point. He was going nowhere. There was no escape. The battle had been for Drift's freedom as much as the safety of New Crystal City. Drift knew the price Wing had paid, had been willing to pay. He would honor that, honor this and any suffering Wing endured. “He values his freedom too much.”
“We shall see,” Turmoil said, mildly. He shifted his weight, lifting one hip to rest on the edge of the berth. “I'm sure that you can provide...other compensations.” He let his hand trail down from the chassis over the pelvic frame, down the inside of one splayed thigh, the gesture speaking for itself.
Wing shivered, trying to draw himself away from the lascivious touch and its malign promise. “He turned his back on you. He won't come back. He's not one of you anymore,” he said, a thin resistance of all he could imagine resisting—the end of the hope that he had died for.
“Perhaps,” Turmoil said, calmly, hand stilling on the thigh,”I know him better than you think.” He leaned closer, close enough that his EM field—a strange, void coolness—sucked the heat from Wing's. “And breaking you with that knowledge will be its own pleasure, pretty jet.”
Wing sank back, crushed under the sudden mass of despair and hatred that swept over him, pulling him under to drown.
no subject
no subject
I'm sorry you got the feeling that it's incomplete. I'm not writing my best lately and I was just trying to write something to get my confidence back. Guess not, huh? :)
no subject
Yeah... I can really imagine how Turmoil's gonna play with Wing's mind with the Drift/Deadlock and who-knows-him-better thing. And if Drift comes for him or not... could be interesting to see who's right. And what they both think of it.
As it stands, though, gorgeous and dark and both Lockdown and Turmoil creep me out! XD
no subject
*FLAIL*
The Perceptor in my head is way past rage and into that reeeeaaally cold fury where he shuts down to one thing... and he would totally be down with torturing Turmoil right now. Not just killing him, but torturing, just to get his "pound of flesh" back.
Bravo! (but, seriously... someone save Wing, please?)
no subject
*wishful thinking theater has Drift and Percy smashing in, tying Turmoil into a pretzel with his head stuck in an electrical outlet, and rescuing Wing and taking him home with lots and lots of cuddles...*